


Loser Day Blues

by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, UST, Valentine’s Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 22:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13691175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmare/pseuds/blackmare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: February fourteenth is just another day, and another evening in which Wilson winds up at House’s, although — this time — not for the usual reasons.





	Loser Day Blues

"Happy Bastardized Pagan Holiday, House." He hands over the second of the two lattes he brought to work; he'd have been buying them anyway. It's Wednesday, no matter what else it is. 

House remains in his spot, leaning against the closed door of Wilson’s office, blocking him there in the hall. The little metal N on the end of WILSON is digging into his shoulder by now, but House seems not to mind. He flips the plastic lid from the cup and dips up some foam on one finger, which he proceeds to lick clean. "I prefer 'Miserable Failure at Relationships Day,' given who's spreading the holiday cheer."

"And to whom the cheer is being spread." 

House is glaring at a shiny drop of liquid on the lid of Wilson's cup."You got the caramel syrup." 

"In both of them, because I know how mature you are about that sort of thing. Aren't you supposed to just take this and run off to solve a case?"

"If you _really_ want to woo me, forget the caramel syrup and find me a non-boring patient."

* * *

"I said, I wanted a _non-boring_ patient." They're doing this by the light of House's best reading lamp, with Wilson on House's sofa, because it's nine-something at night and neither of them wants to go anywhere near an ER.

"I'm sorry my head injury is less than entertaining. I didn’t have time to teach it any tricks. _Ouch!_ "

"Hold still, you idiot."

"Only if the next thing you jab me with is more lidocaine." Wilson can feel a drop of something trickling down onto his left ear. Blood, or disinfectant; impossible to tell. He tries to dab at it, and House swats his hand away -- but then picks up the lidocaine syringe. 

"Instead of saying I told you so, I'm gonna make you tell me why he did it." Half-numbed though the area is, Wilson can still feel House parting the wet, sticky hair near the wound. The injection feels strange, pressure more than pain; move to the other side of the gash, part hair, repeat. "Did he say anything?"

"He thinks I'm a robot. I ... I think. I think he thinks I'm not really me. He wasn't waxing eloquent tonight. How bad is it bleeding?"

"It's bleeding like a scalp wound. Which I'm going to finish stitching before you get it all over my sofa."

Wilson's shirt, tie, and at least one of House's towels are already ruined. No great losses, really. House keeps holding gauze to the wound, wicking the blood out of the way, and the painful needle-punctures just feel like tugging now. A twinge here and there, nothing bad enough to make him flinch. 

"I've counted seven," Wilson says.

"Six. Three more to go, but not until I irrigate out this pocket of dirt I missed. What the hell did he hit you with?"

"Surveyor's stake. Yanked it out of the ground and lunged like it was a sword. Nailed me with it and ran. He's gonna die out there, House." 

"Seems to me he's better at surviving than you are." The stuff running down Wilson's neck, soaking one side of his collar, stings his nose with a sharp, antiseptic tang.

 _Not blood_ , Wilson thinks. _Not blood_. The wound being cleaned feels like nothing more than a cold spot, atop his generally aching head. There are many advantages to allowing House to do this: prompt attention; not sitting in a waiting area being coughed at by flu patients; utter lack of paperwork. But mainly, it’s the privacy Wilson wants. A funny thought, considering how much he knew House would pry. 

"I'm going with you next time,” House says, as if on cue. “And don't tell me there won't be a next time."

"There will be, if I can find him. But not tonight. It's still Lonely Loser Day for us, right?"

House is stitching him again. _Seven_ , Wilson thinks. Two more.

"I'm not going out with you unless you made reservations. We'll never get a table." 

"Order in," Wilson says. "I'll buy." _Eight_ , he notes. There's a pause in the tugging on his scalp.

"No, I'll get the bill," House says, and he leans over so Wilson can see his wicked smile. "But only if _you_ get the door."

* * *

"God, this smells amazing." He'd barely realized how hungry he was, until now. Good thing they'd gone for the Larger-Than-Large.

"So how much _did_ you tip her?" House, classy as always, has foregone the plates and come back to the sofa with two beers and a roll of paper towels. 

"Enough to make up for the shock. I hope."

"You care way too much what other people think."

"I care that she might call the cops."

"If she does, I'm not home. I can't believe you actually answered the door like that."

They are digging into the pizza like the ravenous animals they are, so it takes a moment before Wilson can reply.

"Weird, isn't it. You might think I'd just been hit on the head or something." 

"What were you doing tonight? There’s a uniform you wear when you're crazy-brother hunting. Boots, that tan coat, neither of which you had on; ergo, you found him by accident this time."

Wilson's silence is all the proof House needs that he's right. "You never told me where you were. What neighborhood."

"I ... a couple blocks north of ... oh, the hell with it. I’d just been to the Record Exchange. He was trudging along Witherspoon, by the cemetery."

" _You_ were at the Record Exchange. Craving some vintage ABBA vinyl?"

"I had special-ordered something. For a friend with a record player. The day of its arrival was purely a coincidence." 

"This 'friend' with a record player. What's her name?"

"Irene Adler," he says. He takes another slice of pizza and looks pityingly at House over the pepperoni. "You really are obtuse sometimes."

* * *

"You bought _me_ a present. For Valentine's Day."

"I bought you a present six weeks ago. It happened to arrive today, and since I'm a pathetic loser at relationships, it's not like I had better things to do than go pick it up." Wilson lets out an extremely non-romantic belch. "My head hurts, and for once it's not your fault."

"Get us both another beer," House says, "and you can have one of my pills." He's making deals with Wilson tonight, isn't he? That's ... weird, because Wilson _owes him_. He should not be making nice, here. He should be making some kind of outrageous demand, exacting some payment for Wilson's bloody transformation of the living room into an emergency clinic.

He picks up and rattles the Vicodin bottle that was sitting on the end table. "You know you wanna. All the cool kids are doing it."

"You," Wilson says, pointing that Finger of Accusation at him, "are trying to keep me here." He's halfway to the kitchen when House calls out after him. 

"Is it working?"

Wilson comes back, beers in one hand and the other hand outstretched, waiting for a pill. "Gimme," he says. "My brother tried to kill me, my head hurts, and ... I don't actually want to be alone tonight."

House, much more amicably than he thinks he should, trades a pill for a beer. "You don't actually suck at _every_ relationship," he says. "You suck at the ones you think you're supposed to want. The reason you suck at them, by the way, is because you don't want them."

"Can you maybe wait to pick apart my psyche until _after_ the Vicodin kicks in?"

"Or you could maybe wait to start whining until after you've cleaned up my sofa. Crazy brother attack or not, you're not here tonight by accident. If you really wanted what you think you want, you'd have it."

"I did mention that my head already hurts?"

"You're here because you want to be here. I’m betting you’ll be here next Sorry Lonely Loser Day, too."

“You think I’ll be on your sofa one year from today, instead of getting laid.”

“Or _while_ getting laid. Think outside the box, Wilson. So what’d you get me?”

“My keys are right there. Your gift is on the passenger seat of my car. Go find out.” 

“I’m _crippled_.”

“My heart would bleed for you, truly, but my head already did.”

“Some Valentine you are.” House picks up Wilson’s keychain and trudges for the door, exaggerating his limp for effect. “I knew I did the right thing, not buying you flowers.” 

House is out the door before it occurs to Wilson to ask —

“What do you mean, _’while_ ’?”

The question bounces around the room, safely unheard. By the time House returns, it feels too late to ask again. 

And, perhaps, not necessary.

* * *


End file.
